


Taut

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Blindfolds, Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Really,' Hayato says, his voice seeming louder and lower for the darkness covering Takeshi’s vision. 'We should get a proper blindfold, if you want to make a habit of this.'" Takeshi has a birthday and Hayato is indulgent.





	Taut

“Really,” Hayato says, his voice seeming louder and lower for the darkness covering Takeshi’s vision. “We should get a proper blindfold, if you want to make a habit of this.”

Takeshi huffs a laugh into the shadows. His smile comes the more easily for the dark wrapping around him; it’s hard to remember that Hayato can see him in return when he’s absent the familiar sight of the other’s scowl and the creased-together line of silver brows. “It’s not a habit, really.”

“It’s at least once a year.” Hayato tugs hard against the knot at the back of Takeshi’s head; the silk in his hands slips a little with the force to settle close against the rumpled-up weight of the other’s hair. “That’s a habit.”

Takeshi lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “An infrequent one,” he says. Hayato’s hands fall from the ends of the tie knotted over his eyes and he turns his head in instinctive pursuit of the other’s presence; when he lifts a hand it’s to reach out behind him to find some part of his partner. His fingers bump smooth fabric, his thumb catches against the button of the dark vest Hayato is wearing, and then fingers close against his wrist and Hayato pushes him back and away.

“Don’t move,” he growls. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Takeshi smiles into the darkness but obeys, turning back to face forward as Hayato shifts on the bed behind him, the movement accompanied by the soft sound of expensive fabric slipping over itself. “You’re still dressed.”

“Perceptive of you,” Hayato drawls. Something brushes over Takeshi’s head, a weight slides over his hair; he tips his head up to track it and it slips down over his face to fall against the bare skin of his collarbones. “Is this a demonstration of your skills as one of the fabled Vongola Guardians?”

“No,” Takeshi says, still smiling. He reaches out behind him without turning this time to better dodge what protest Hayato might offer. His fingers find the other’s knee, his touch skims against the smooth of the fabric, but Hayato doesn’t pull away this time, whether from surrender or just because he’s too busy sliding the fabric in his hands close against the curve of Takeshi’s throat. “Are you going to take your suit off?”

“I don’t know,” Hayato says. There’s an edge on his voice that makes Takeshi suspect he’s being sarcastic instead of sincere, but the same years that have given Takeshi ample experience in distinguishing the two have given Hayato extensive practice in encompassing them both in a single indistinguishable growl. “I haven’t decided.” His grip tightens and the fabric against Takeshi’s neck pulls flush against the rhythm of his heart beating in his throat. “I thought the whole point of you being blindfolded was for you not to know what’s happening.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says. He tips his head to the side, tracking the sound of Hayato’s voice over his shoulder; his hand pushes up to slide against the line of the other’s thigh. “It’s fun to try to figure it out anyway.”

“Is that what’s fun about it,” Hayato says. The fabric shifts again; Takeshi can’t tell what the other’s doing, except that his grip on the ends of the tie draped around Takeshi’s neck is unflinching. Takeshi’s fingers slide higher, his touch questing against the outside seam of Hayato’s slacks; and Hayato’s hands pull, and the fabric looped around Takeshi’s neck goes taut with sudden pressure. It’s not painful -- Hayato is always careful, with this -- but the force is unmistakable, like the strain of the fabric cinching tight around Takeshi’s neck is a promise, a suggestion of what is to come. Takeshi’s breath gusts out of him, carried more on the surge of heat that courses through his veins than by the actual tension of the tie itself, and behind him Hayato shifts to rock himself forward and press nearer by the span of inches.

“I’m just going to have to distract you then.” Hayato’s words are soft, almost a purr in the smoky rasp of his voice; Takeshi can feel them run warmth straight down his spine. If he weren’t already more than half-hard from the blindfold over his eyes and the pressure at his throat, he’s certain that voice would be more than enough to finish the job.

“Oh,” he gasps, feeling the sound go liquid with heat in his throat. “Hayato.”

“Yeah,” Hayato growls, possessiveness turning the simple sound rough and low. His hold shifts, the tension eases for a moment; then it’s drawing taut again, pulled back by just one hand as the fingers of the other slide up and into the tangle of Takeshi’s hair to push his head forward. “Down.”

Takeshi goes, obedient to the force against his hair and trusting to the tension around his neck to ease as he leans into it. Hayato matches him as he tips forward, following Takeshi’s movements with such perfect grace he might as well be the one moving as well as urging. Takeshi’s hands find the soft of the sheets, he lowers himself to lie flat across the bed before him, and Hayato’s touch slides back across his head, smoothing the weight of his hair under the other’s fingers as he draws up and away.

“Stay there,” Hayato says. The tension at Takeshi’s neck eases, the ends of the tie looped around his throat fall slack across his shoulders, and Takeshi can feel the mattress shift under him as Hayato pulls back and away. He doesn’t move, except to turn his head to pillow against the soft of the sheets below him; then he goes slack over the blankets, giving himself up to the luxurious support of the bed while he listens to the sound of Hayato moving around the room.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know what’s happening. The blindfold only blocks his sight: memory and hearing are both abundantly clear, and with the familiarity of the room and his own anticipation of what is to come the murmur of action is more than enough to give Hayato’s intention away from sound alone. If he wanted to Takeshi thinks he could form purpose to every soft footstep and every huffed exhale, could paint a picture of the whole room in his imagination. But that would defeat the purpose of the blindfold, would strip away the sense of mystery that comes along with the loss of his sight; so Takeshi closes his eyes behind the dark blocking his vision, and he sighs himself into calm, and he lets the sound of Hayato’s movement around him prickle electric anticipation down his spine without trying to put shape to the giveaway of the motion. There’s the drag of a drawer sliding across smooth rollers, the slick catch of expensive cloth slipping over itself; a click of metal or maybe of plastic, accompanied with a huff of a frustrated exhale that Takeshi could know as Hayato out of a crowd of dozens. The squeak of the bed as it shifts under Takeshi, a thud of something hitting the floor, some soft rustle that he can’t place at all; and then there’s contact, the heat of fingers tapping just against the inside of his thigh, and Takeshi hisses an inhale as his body tenses with responsive heat.

“Calm down,” Hayato tells him. His voice is rough enough for the words to pass for judgment but his touch is gentle as he presses his fingers flush to Takeshi’s skin. “Move your legs apart.”

Takeshi obeys. He’s warm all over, glowing in complete contradiction to the chill that might be carried on the air sliding over his uncovered skin, and even the motion of angling his knees open feels indulgent and luxurious against the sheets under him. The movement shifts the angle of his hips and lets his weight press down closer against the bed; Takeshi can feel the dull ache of the friction pressing against his cock as his weight urges the heat of it flush against his stomach. His heart is beating harder, the radiant hum of pleasure in his veins is drawing together to coalesce somewhere in the middle of his body, and under him the bed shifts, against his thigh Hayato’s fingers slide up to brace his leg out into open suggestion.

Hayato doesn’t keep him waiting. He could, if he wanted, and he has before, when he’s feeling particularly irritable or particularly indulgent either one; Takeshi remembers the strain of knots at his wrists as he pulled reflexively against restraints pinning him to stillness, remembers the shuddering heat of Hayato’s laugh as fingers trailed patterns of aimless heat all over Takeshi’s skin but where he was aching for it. But this time Hayato just presses his palm flush to Takeshi’s thigh, the weight of his touch certain to speak to his intention, and when his slick fingers make contact it’s to press to Takeshi’s entrance at once, to slide wet in over the tension of the other’s body. Takeshi eases immediately, relaxing to the contact without needing to be told, without needing to think of it, and Hayato takes him as smoothly, in one easy thrust formed of slick-smooth confidence. The friction slides deep, humming heat against Takeshi’s spine as his shoulders tense, as his breath rushes from him, and Hayato is pulling back to move again before Takeshi can even give voice to the plea for more he wants to offer. The motion is certain, imbued with the same self-consciousness that lifts Hayato’s chin and straightens his shoulders under his elegant suits, and Takeshi shudders over a breath and gives himself over to Hayato’s keeping.

It’s hardly a loss. Hayato’s touch is pure heat, the way it always has been, as if that flame he used to keep smouldering at the end of a cigarette or crackling against a fuse has compressed itself under the surface of his skin, as if the reckless speed that used to hiss just under the surface of everything his younger self did has smoothed and tightened into absolute confidence over the span of years. Hayato takes without force, urging Takeshi to ease for him without any suggestion of uncertainty in his movements; and Takeshi gives, everything offered without hesitation, the pace of his breathing and the heat of his skin and the tension of his body all giving way to Hayato’s fingers. Hayato presses him open, one finger and then another, thrusting with steady strokes that stoke heat in Takeshi’s blood as surely as they urge his body to relaxation, and Takeshi gasps against the sheets and lets pleasure build to open desire, feels his arousal climbing to knot low down in his belly and against the base of his spine like it’s fixing itself around Hayato’s fingers. He’s lost track of time, he’s lost track of space; it’s only the details he retains, the slick of the sheets sliding underneath his knees, and the weight of the tie looped around his neck, and the pressure of Hayato’s fingers tilting his leg to the side and stroking unerringly against the knot of want inside him. Takeshi’s skin is flushing hot, his mouth is open and panting against the pillow beneath him, his hips are canting forward to grind against the friction of the bed; and then Hayato huffs a breath, and “You’re ready” he declares as he slides his touch back and away at once. Takeshi groans in the back of his throat, the sound pulling free from the ache in him before he can think, and when he turns his head it’s to track the sound of Hayato’s voice, to get closer even if only by an inch to the rustle of the other moving behind him.

“Hayato?” Takeshi lifts his hand from the bed, struggling to form the tension of movement from heat-languid muscles as he stretches out, swinging his fingers through air in pursuit of some part of Hayato behind him. “Hayato, where…” and his touch skims skin, his hand brushing against the other before fingers close hard around his wrist to pull his straining fingers out to open air.

“ _Patience_ ,” Hayato growls in a lower range than any he’s yet hit. Takeshi doesn’t push back when Hayato leans in to pin his hand to the small of his back; he’s breathing too hard already from the promise of that bare skin and the work of Hayato’s fingers in him. He doesn’t need the urging of Hayato’s free hand pushing roughly against the inside of his thigh: he’s moving already to spread his knees open on the bed and brace himself so he can rock his weight back by a few extra inches to make a suggestion of the angle of his body. Hayato huffs a breath that almost passes for frustration instead of amusement, and when he shifts Takeshi can feel the bed move a moment before a knee presses in hard against the back of his thigh.

“I always thought you were the calm one,” Hayato grumbles. He leans in against Takeshi’s leg to brace himself; Takeshi can feel the drag of slick heat over his skin, can feel his breath stick in his lungs over anticipation. “Channel your stupid Rain flames and relax.”

Hayato lets Takeshi’s wrist go when the other pulls to draw his hand free and brace himself against the bed so he can turn his head up and away from the sheets, at least enough to speak. “They’re not just _my_ flames,” Takeshi says. “You can use them too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. “I’m not planning on being particularly tranquil with you right now, though.” His legs flex, his hips buck forward, and Takeshi groans all the way at the back of his throat as Hayato’s cock slides home in one solid thrust. The strain surges out into him, like he’s carrying the force of Hayato’s motion up and into the whole of his body just by letting it work into him, and over him Hayato is gusting an exhale and reaching out to touch against the line of his shoulder.

“Breathe, Takeshi,” he says, and his voice is shadowed as dark as the blindfold blocking the light from Takeshi’s eyes. The ends of the tie wrapped around Takeshi’s throat shift as Hayato’s grip closes on them; Takeshi’s obedient inhale hiccups in his throat with a premonition of heat. He tries again, struggling to keep his attention on the motion of air in his chest, on the full-throated gasp of oxygen he manages, but it’s hard to think about much of anything when he can feel the texture of the tie sliding over his neck, when he can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat aching in the strain of his cock against the sheets. Hayato waits, letting Takeshi struggle through one breath, and another, and a third, each one smoothing with more ease as the startled strain of anticipation loosens; and then his arm flexes, his fingers pull, and Takeshi’s mouth comes open on a straining whimper as his throat closes to the urge of Hayato’s hold. His heart skips faster, his fingers clench reflexive pressure against the sheets, and Hayato moves, his hand holding the tension steady as his hips draw back and he takes another thrust forward. Takeshi’s hips jerk, his body flaring hotter as if the stilling of his breathing has heightened his attention to everything else, and over him Hayato huffs an exhale that rumbles over the very start of laughter.

“You love this,” he says. “I can’t believe of the two of us _you’re_ the kinky one, baseball idiot.” His voice turns the familiar insult warm with years of repetition, like the work of an ocean wearing away at edges until what was once broken glass is worn to jewel-smoothness. He takes another stroke, long and certain enough that Takeshi’s throat flexes on a groan he can’t give voice to, and then his hand eases to release the pressure as his fingers touch the back of Takeshi’s neck. “Breathe.”

Takeshi breathes. Hayato lets him have a full inhale before he pushes his hand up, digging his fingers into Takeshi’s hair and tightening the fabric around the other’s neck at one and the same time. Takeshi can feel the weight like fingers closing against his throat, as if it’s Hayato’s spark-scarred palms holding back the drag of air into his lungs; the thought makes his cock twitch, makes his body clench tight around the rhythm of Hayato fucking steady pulses of friction down inside him. Hayato groans against the pressure, his voice breaking to rough depths, and he moves harder, driving forward into a pace fast enough to scatter Takeshi’s coherency like startled birds.

Takeshi doesn’t think about the slip of time passing, doesn’t think about the colors of the room around him that his tied-back vision is kept from; his attention is held by smaller things, by the drag of fabric at his neck, and the slide of his cock against the sheets, and the throbbing heat of Hayato moving inside him. The back of his thighs are straining, struggling to maintain their angle keeping him tipped up over the bed; he can feel the sweat-heat of Hayato’s skin slipping over his with every thrust. It’s all pressure, friction and sweat and strain building in his thighs and stomach and chest; and then Hayato hisses a breath, and eases the tension of the tie at Takeshi’s neck. Takeshi gasps for air, loosening the knot at his chest as Hayato’s hand pulls at his hip to hitch him forward so the other can slide his knees in and under Takeshi’s; then Hayato leans in again, and wraps the tie into another loop around his hand, and when he bucks forward the head of his cock drives thought free of Takeshi’s mind entirely. Takeshi’s mouth falls open, his thighs tremble slack to drop him over Hayato’s lap, and Hayato groans satisfaction and resumes his previous pace.

Takeshi doesn’t know how long they continue. He’s not sure if his eyes are open, if it’s the dark of the blindfold he’s staring at or the inside of his eyelids; he doesn’t know how many times Hayato has drawn that tie tight against his throat, doesn’t know how long he’s had the heat of Hayato’s cock stroking a tide of pleasure out into his body. Everything has gone hazy with heat, everything is giving way to Hayato’s rhythm: the pleasure, and the motion, and even the gasp of Takeshi’s breathing formed around the pull and stroke of Hayato over and in him. Takeshi’s thoughts are dizzy, his fingers are slack against the sheets; his cock is aching, denied the friction of the bed beneath him by the press of Hayato’s legs supporting his own. His whole body feels like it’s trembling, like he can feel his heartbeat in the flutter of his eyelids and the tremor of his thighs; his skin is alive with heat, he feels like he’s glowing with the impending explosion Hayato is building from the friction inside him. Hayato’s fingers are sliding into his hair, pushing his head down against the bed and stroking affectionate friction in their wake at one and the same time, and when his hold tightens Takeshi can feel the ache of anticipation tense at his throat a moment before Hayato’s wrist flexes to draw the loop around his neck tight. His lips part, his throat strains for air to struggle against the pressure against his windpipe with futile force, and over him Hayato huffs a breath.

“Tap if it’s too much,” he warns, the way he always does, like Takeshi is likely to forget the signal they agreed to the first time they did this; and then he sucks in a deep inhale, and he moves faster, skipping the pace of his action to a fever pitch. Takeshi’s eyes open wide against the dark of his blindfold, his lip part in an attempt for breath, his throat works over a moan of heat; but there’s no sight, and no sound, and no breath, just the pressure building at his spine and knotting deep down in his stomach. Hayato’s breathing is going ragged, is catching on strain as he moves, as his fingers curl to a fist in Takeshi’s hair, but Takeshi’s awareness is hazing over as his whole existence goes weightless. He’s heat, he’s steam, he’s wanting silence and aching pressure; he can’t reach for more, can’t even give voice to the words to beg Hayato for anything other than what he’s getting. All he can do is watch it coming for him, feel the wave of sensation building endlessly against the length of his spine; and Hayato’s hips jolt forward, and Takeshi’s head cants back, and the pressure in him gives way in a single convulsive tremor of heat. Hayato keeps the pressure taut, keeps the other’s throat closed while Takeshi shudders with the force of the orgasm rippling through him, and then with the helpless tremors of aftershocks; it’s only after the other has gone slack against the sheets, only when Takeshi is lying hazy and heavy with spent pleasure and dizzy with breathlessness that the tension gives way to let him gasp a ragged lungful of air.

“Hayato,” Takeshi manages, as the first thing to say. His voice sounds strange, raw and aching from the pressure of the tie now gone slack against his neck, but the roughness doesn’t do anything at all to mitigate the sultry weight of pleasure sweet as honey on his tongue.

Hayato’s hand at his shoulders slides away to brace against the bed instead; Takeshi hears the other huff a breath over him. “Goddamnit, Takeshi,” Hayato grates. “You have _no_ idea how hot that was.”

Takeshi grins into the dark and twists so he can reach up and fumble behind him. His fingers drag over bare skin and trail over the rhythm of Hayato’s breathing in his chest before he comes up to touch his fingers to the other’s jawline and over the curve of his lips. “Yeah?”

Hayato growls a low sound against Takeshi’s fingers at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, the affirmative sounding a curse; and Takeshi pushes his fingers up into Hayato’s hair, and Hayato ducks his head forward and gives over speech in exchange for resuming his rough thrusts into the other. Takeshi gusts a breath, almost a moan and something of a whimper at once as Hayato’s cock runs up against the sated heat of his body, but Hayato doesn’t stop, and Takeshi doesn’t want him to. He curls his fingers into a fist instead, holding Hayato’s hair back from his face in the grip of his fingers, and Hayato keeps moving into him with reckless speed. Takeshi can hear the rasp of Hayato’s breathing, can feel the tension building in the other’s shoulders, until finally he gasps an inhale that sounds of relief and spills himself to stillness inside Takeshi.

They stay like that for a moment: Takeshi twisted around to touch blindly at Hayato’s face, Hayato curved in over him with his shoulders trembling with tension, and nothing at all between them but the tie looped around Takeshi’s neck and the one knotted over his eyes. Takeshi takes a breath, lingering in the humid weight of the air around them, and then Hayato groans an exhale and reaches up to push Takeshi’s hand free of his hair. Takeshi lets his hold go, reaching for the knot at the back of his blindfold as Hayato reclaims his balance and draws back and out of him; he’s still fumbling with it when Hayato huffs a laugh from the end of the bed.

“Here,” he says. A hand touches Takeshi’s, fingers push at the blindfold, and Hayato slides it up and free all at once. Takeshi blinks hard against the sudden flare of vision, feeling sunblind for a moment just by the dim of the lighting in the bedroom, and Hayato tips in to fall heavily across the bed next to him. He looks haloed in light for a moment, as Takeshi blinks back involuntary tears from his new-returned vision; then he turns his head to look at the other, and Takeshi’s gaze clears to leave Hayato’s familiar beauty clear to his sight. The other is watching him, his forehead creased and his mouth tugging on a frown as unconscious, Takeshi thinks, as the way his gaze is wandering over Takeshi’s face. “You okay?”

Takeshi smiles without lifting his head. “Yeah.”

Hayato’s attention slips to his neck. “Let me see,” he says. Takeshi lifts his chin obediently to give Hayato the space to tug the tie free.

“It’s a little bruised,” Hayato declares. His voice is rough but his touch is gentle as he presses against the lines where the tie was sitting; Takeshi can feel his heartbeat with self-conscious clarity against Hayato’s touch. “We’ll have to see if it leaves a mark.”

“It won’t,” Takeshi says with perfect certainty. “You never leave a mark.”

“I haven’t before,” Hayato growls. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Mm.” Takeshi reaches to close his fingers around Hayato’s and draw them down into the space between their bodies so he can duck his chin and smile at the other. “It’ll be fine.”

Hayato huffs resignation. “You always say that, Takeshi.”

“And it always is.” Takeshi slides in over the bed to fit himself against Hayato’s chest with their clasped hands caught between them. “Isn’t it?”

“Hmph.” Hayato frees his other arm from under him so he can reach out to push his fingers into Takeshi’s hair. “We should really take a bath.”

“Soon,” Takeshi promises, and tightens his hold on Hayato’s hand while he presses in closer. “Just hold me for now.”

Hayato heaves a sigh. “Demanding,” he says. His fingers wind into Takeshi’s hair to stroke against the dark of the strands. “You know I only do this because it’s your birthday.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums. “And because you love me.”

He can feel the weight of Hayato’s sigh ruffle through his hair. “Yes,” Hayato says, and his hand slides in and down to cradle the back of Takeshi’s neck to hold him close against the other’s shoulder. “And because I love you.”

Takeshi smiles against Hayato’s skin. “I know,” he says. “I love you too, Hayato.” Hayato huffs a breath by way of answer, but he doesn’t protest, and when he lifts his hand it’s to stroke through Takeshi’s hair again, more slowly this time. Takeshi tucks his head in against the side of Hayato’s neck, and draws a slow inhale of heat, and when Hayato lifts his hand to stroke through his hair again he lets his eyes shut so he can linger in the friction at his scalp, and the thud of Hayato’s heartbeat, and the soft murmur of their breathing fitting into a single satisfied sound.


End file.
